Recall to Arms
By
Frank Perry, author
Hampton Falls, New Hampshire
[email protected] Synopsis
A young Army officer becomes severely depressed and quits the military after experiencing a horrible event as a counter terrorist operator and can’t rationalize ever leading soldiers in action again. He seeks obscurity as a civilian, taking menial jobs with no plans for his future. Then, a nuclear terror threat in the United States forces him back into service, supporting law enforcement as an advisor about an old adversary. He meets an attractive young intelligence analyst assisting the FBI. The emergency that brings them together also creates a barrier to any personal relationship. When the danger escalates further, they may never have any chance to be together.
Copyright © 2016 by Frank Perry
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email to:
[email protected] ___________________________________________
Acknowledgements
I would like to express my gratitude to the many people who saw me through this book; to all those who provided support, talked things over, read, critiqued, offered comments, and assisted in the editing, proofreading and design. I would like to thank Beverly Heinle for patiently proofing, editing and suggesting improvements that have been invaluable. Above all I want to thank my wife, Janet, who supported me throughout this and edited the first drafts.
I also would like to thank Rick Cesario for laboring through the earliest draft, and making invaluable suggestions. Special thanks to my son, Brendan Perry who developed the cover art.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, world organizations, government agencies, regulations, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The author professes no medical training related to the subject matter.
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Other books by Frank:
The Cobra Identity
Reign of Terror
Letters From the Grave
Kingfish
Sibley’s Secret
The Dolos Conspiracy
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Prologue
Things never go as planned in the chaos of combat. In fact, about the only certainties are mass confusion, pain, noise, odors, filth, and the gamut of human emotions. Every entry-level military leadership course makes the point. Most soldiers never actually have the experience or fully comprehend its meaning, but the soldiers on this mission were living it.
The mission was risky even by spec ops standards. Their orders were to capture or kill a terrorist, Hasan Abdul-Razzaq, at a training camp in southern Syria. The Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA) said Razzaq would be there. Other missions to capture him had been cancelled or aborted. He was always on the move and it was never possible to isolate him long enough to get him. Tonight had been their best chance yet, but there had only been a week to prepare. Not enough time. Razzaq had been near the top of the enemy list for years, having destroyed thousands of lives around the world. This time was different from other attempts to get him. There was good information and time to get the equipment and personnel to his location...very little time.
The Mission
Splintered safety glass had stopped dozens of the bullets, but shards had peppered his face and arms. The mission was a disaster and the only objective now was to escape. He and his team were fleeing for their lives under torrential gunfire, trying to reach the Israeli border. The Russian-made Syrian 6x6 Army truck slammed over rough terrain in blackness, without headlights, at dangerous speeds. Choking iron-rich dust filled their lungs and obscured the enemy close behind. The Captain used all his strength steering over crevices and rocks, praying that the suspension would hold together. Blood-soaked mud streaked his face and hands as the steering wheel jerked violently. He swore with each jolt to help relieve the terror he felt. His pulse raced and every sense was piqued by the smells of diesel, sweat and gun smoke. His ears hammered but no sound registered as survival instincts took over. His fear wasn’t personal; he needed to save his men, his kin.
Rangers trained for the risks of “special operations”. The Captain was the oldest member of his team at thirty, except for the Master Sergeant who was four or five years older. He felt a paternal sense of devotion and responsibility to his men. Most of those in the twelve-man squad were younger than twenty-three, boys by some standards, and warriors by another.
Their night drop into the territory had been unconventional using composite Wing-Pack gliders. Wing-pack gliders are rigid wing structures made of lightweight composite materials specifically destined for secret incursions by military Special Forces.
The camp was outside normal commercial flight zones and all air traffic was monitored by Syrian radar. The distance from the jump point inside the commercial route to the landing zone in Southern Syria was about eighty miles, so they used small delta wing structures to cross the distance to their objective. The team had done three practice jumps with the wings, two in daylight and one at night. More practice had been needed, but there was no time.
Hours before, they began forming in a darkened hanger at Prince Sultan Air Force Base, Saudi Arabia. The team had been assembling for hours, arriving separately as transit personnel on different flights. Military units came and went daily, and they had to be cautious about attracting attention of Saudi spies. When they had all arrived, the Captain assembled them together while an Air Force C17 Globemaster cargo plane taxied to the partially open hanger door. The men had known each other most of their brief military lives. The Captain was idolized by some, and all respected his lead-by-example style. They trained together, lived together, ate together and fought together. Almost all of them had been on at least one prior mission with “Six” (Army slang for commanding officer) before. Several had been in firefights with him.
Military protocol mellowed a bit in the special operations teams where mutual dependency meant that everyone played an equal role in keeping the others alive. The chain of command would stiffen when the airplane left the ground, but for now it remained informal. The Captain called the team together, “Wow! I thought Benning was hot! All right men, we got our taxi, so load up quick and quiet.”
Precautions had to be taken at the airbase, because the Saudis were, at their roots Middle-Eastern Muslims, and some were spies for Al Qaeda and other radical Islamic groups. The airbase was used by US and Arab military personnel, which complicated security to the point of ridiculousness. No US personnel trusted the Saudis, who provided endless “private” donations to Islamic terror organizations. Part of the team’s preparation was aimed at deceiving the Arabs. Everyone moved in slow unison up the cargo ramp, when someone asked in a low voice, “We really goin’ this time, Six?”
The Captain answered in a low voice barely audible above the aircraft generator noise, “Yeah, unless someone waives it off in the air, we’re doing it.” He understood the emotions each man was feeling. He’d felt them many times himself and shared them now. There was a feeling of dread mixed with exhilaration. Every man partially wished that it would be aborted, but also reveled with excitement. A somber reality settled
over them as they lugged their gear aboard the plane.
The mood was quiet yet energized. One man said in a low voice, “Yeah, maybe we lose the radio this time.”
Engine noise drowned out any more discussion as gear was carried up the cargo ramp. They pushed and shoved each other to release tension, but maintained a routine appearance. Most of the gear taken aboard was personal baggage indicating a routine unit transport to anyone observing from the countless shadowy coveys in the buildings nearby.
Before departing MacDill Air Force Base in Florida, special operations personnel had loaded the gigantic plane with a large wooden structure containing the glide wings in the center of the unlit cargo bay covered from view along with the weapons rack, but the rest of their gear stayed with the men near their seats. For anyone watching, it was just another movement of troops and equipment.
As they settled onto the canvas benches along the sidewalls of the fuselage, someone yelled, “Hey scooter, don’t forget your NVGs...oh yeah, we didn’t get to bring ‘em.”
Someone else yelled above the noise, “It’s okay Tug, Rangers can see in the dark!”
Outward bravado relaxed tension as the monstrous plane began to roll. From landing to takeoff, the time on